


Sherlolly 3: Autospy

by George_Sand



Series: George_Sand Sherlolly Series 1 [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, I Love You, Mature but always sweet and gentle, Molly in control, Passive Sherlock, Sherlock's shirt off, Slow Burn, Tactful and respectful autopsy, Virgin Sherlock, otherwise fully clothed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand
Summary: Molly explores Sherlock as he lays passively. She takes comfort after a hard day at work.Part 3 of the George_Sand Sherlolly 1 Series.  Please read in order, as each builds upon the last.Molly looks at Sherlock and says “Would you lay on the couch please?” Puzzled, but wordlessly and obediently, Sherlock gets up and stretches full-length on the couch, expecting her to join him. She does not. “Sherlock Holmes” she murmurs to herself.  Sherlock is completely bemused but instinctively remains still as her eyes wander over him, almost as if she were making a detailed image to commit to memory.  Sherlock is utterly baffled by her actions but allows her to continue working gently. Then, he exhales and closes his eyes as he realizes she is doing just that – working. She is performing an examination, and though it isn’t logical, it somehow makes sense to Sherlock. He tries to roll onto his side to look at Molly, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and murmurs “Please, just…stay still.”  He lays back down.





	

          Molly has just closed her apartment door and slumped against it when she gets a text.

          _Coffee (literal)? Just got some interesting tissue samples from Lestrade –SH_

          She replies,

           _not now just got home not feeling well –MH_

          It wasn’t really a lie, she really did feel poorly, but it was her mind, not her body. She had performed a pediatric autopsy this morning, which were always taxing, but this was especially so. This patient was…had been…a long-term resident in the cancer ward. Ten years old, thin, stunted growth, just a few tufts of fine hair remaining on her head after her myriad treatments. Molly’s review of her medical record was enough to bring her still, but her intern’s comments had pushed her over the edge. The intern was doing rotations through various areas of the hospital and had just ended six weeks in the patient’s unit. He told Molly that the child’s parents would visit every day; on Fridays with ice cream and a new novel. Usually mint chocolate chip and a vintage Nancy Drew paperback. She had a dog at home who she missed terribly but to whom she couldn’t risk exposure. She loved walking down….

          “Stop David,” Molly had cut the intern off mid-sentence. “She is our post-mortem Subject and thinking of her past won’t help us do our job. Let’s just get it over with.”

          Molly demonstrated the steps necessary for this particular patient…no, this particular subject. The identity was triple-checked and full-body photographs were taken. She…no, it…was weighed and measured. Sizes and positions of body markings and scars were recorded, and Molly couldn’t help but notice the pink fingernail polish on the petite hands while the intern prepared the cutting instruments. Molly directed him through making the huge “Y” incision on the girl’s…subject’s…torso, then the body was wrenched open. Each autopsy Molly performed was done with respect and reverence for the body on the table, but this child…subject…deserved extra care. The intern mimicked her careful handling of the organs as the heart, lungs, trachea and upper abdominal organs were removed and examined. Molly couldn’t remember a body so riddled with cancerous tumors, large and small. The lower abdominal organs, particularly the pancreas, were similarly disfigured. Although an in-depth analysis was hardly needed to determine the cause of death, Molly and the intern reverently prepared immaculate tissue samples for later study. Finally, the last organs to be examined were those in the…subject’s…head. Molly and the intern shared a steeling look before removing the sheet from the face and preparing the bone saw.

          Molly slides to her kitchen floor. Maintaining professionalism had been difficult then, and now that she is home, she lets a sob tear out of her chest through her mouth. She receives another text,

          _What’s wrong – SH_

          She doesn’t answer.

          About 30 minutes later Molly is sitting in a ball on the floor in front of her couch, sipping tepid tea. The intercom beeps and she buzzs up the ringer, not asking or caring who it was, but knowing it is almost certainly Sherlock.

          She is right. He opens her apartment door without knocking and glances around for a moment before seeing her on the floor.

          “What’s wrong,” he says. “Your texts are always correctly punctuated and you never leave work in the middle of the day.”

          He takes the teacup out of her hand, places it and his suit jacket on the kitchen table, and comes back to sit with her on the ground.

          Molly says “I work with dead people…subjects”. Sherlock raises his eye brows, obviously holding back a coldly logical statement about her career choice.

          “I love my job, it provides important information for research or forensics, it gives closure to families, and I still learn every day. But this morning I hated it.”

          She holds Sherlock’s arm and leans against him as she describes her experience. And Sherlock, who had seen so many dead bodies and viewed them only as tools to solve crimes, seems to comprehend why she was upset. Surprised at his own sentiment, he uses his free hand to pat one of hers.

          “I’m a physician. It would be nice to have a living, breathing patient once in a while” Molly smiled wanly. Again, Sherlock swallows a statement of detached reason and just lays his ear on the top of her head. Almost immediately, Molly twists to look at him and says “Would you lay on the couch please?” Puzzled, but wordlessly and obediently, Sherlock gets up and stretches full-length on the couch, expecting her to join him. She does not. Instead, she kneels by the couch and looks him slowly up and down. “Sherlock Holmes” she murmurs to herself.

          Sherlock is completely bemused but instinctively remains still as her eyes wander over him, almost as if she were making a detailed image to commit to memory. She holds up her own hand, opens it wide, and gently presses Sherlock’s palm to hers. Small next to large. He tries to intertwine their fingers but she gently withdraws her hand. She continues, laying her forearm next to his, then wrapping her fingers around her own wrist, then partly around Sherlock’s. Sherlock is utterly baffled by her actions but allows her to continue working gently. Then, he exhales and closes his eyes as he realizes she is doing just that – working. She has positively identified him, created mental images, and is measuring his body in comparison to her own. She is performing an examination, and though it isn’t logical, it somehow makes sense to Sherlock. He tries to roll onto his side to look at Molly, but she puts a hand on his shoulder and murmurs “Please, just…stay still.”  He lays back down.

          Molly now moves her fingertips lightly over his sternum, then up and down his shirt placket. She looks into his eyes, then to her hands while she undoes the top two buttons. She raises her eyes questioningly to Sherlock’s, and continues when he gives her a gentle look in return. Molly undoes all the buttons and Sherlock helps her remove his shirt. When he lays back down, Molly finds him to be pleasingly free of body hair and traces idle shapes on his chest as she studies it. She notices every freckle, mole, and perfect imperfection on his chest, stomach, neck and shoulders. She has never seen them before. Her fingers’ aimless motions halt and slowly trace a large Y on his torso with surprising force, which Sherlock recognizes to be the incision pattern of an abdominal autopsy. She watches his chest rise and fall as he breathes, and places her small warm hands on his pectorals. She drops her head onto his chest and listens to his strong heartbeat. Sherlock reaches to caress her hair but she murmurs, “Lay still”. Unexpectedly but slowly, her tongue presses along his sternum until she halts with a kiss between his clavicles. She exhales warm air as she slides her nose up his neck. She kisses his larynx, licks it, kisses it open- and close-mouthed until she feels it vibrate with a barely-audible moan. Her hands still on his chest she strokes his nipples until he grabs both of her wrists.

          “Lay quietly, please,” Molly whispers as she moves her hands down his rib cage to his smooth stomach. Sherlock allows his hands to fall back to his sides and closes his eyes. Molly smooths her hands all over Sherlock’s stomach and sides, strong enough not to tickle, soft enough not to chafe.  Eventually she stills her hands, resting them at his waist for several long moments. Sherlock wants to take her arms and pull her to him, to reciprocate her touches, but doesn’t. She has asked him to stay still, and he will do as she wishes.

          Finally, Molly looks up at Sherlock’s face. She doesn’t look him in the eyes, however, she seems to stare un-seeingly at his forehead. She approaches his head, still kneeling to the side of the couch, almost forcefully pushing her fingers into his hair. His skull resting in her hands, she brings her thumbs from behind his ears up through his hair to meet at the top of his head.

          “Inside here” she murmurs to herself, then bends forward to kiss his forehead. She gently drags her hands out of Sherlock’s hair and down his neck and he squirms slightly with pleasure. Molly’s hands stroke his temples, his eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones, his lips and his chin before he can stand it no longer.

          “Molly!” he props himself on one arm as he uses the other to pull her face to his. She willingly comes and closes her eyes as he kisses her. “Molly, even your grief is beautiful,” he murmurs against her mouth. He draws back to look at her. Molly seems to return to the present and she smiles, “You are warm and alive and I love you.” She looks at him openly but not expectantly, and her eyes show genuine surprise when he says, “And I love you, Molly Hooper”.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been beta-ed, please send constructive criticism!


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